


Thursdays

by katybar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And a happy ending, Asexuality, It's all John's fault, John is a Saint, Lots of Angst, M/M, Sherlock can get away with anything in the name of data, even though it wasn't his idea, might be dubcon, wikipedia to the rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:31:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katybar/pseuds/katybar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all the energy that John Watson had spent in fantasizing about, yearning for, and remonstrating with himself about his flatmate, in the end it was really quite simple.</p><p>Or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thursdays

**Author's Note:**

> I'm fascinated by sexually asymmetric relationships, mostly because I keep ending up in them. I wanted to write something that was exaggerated (obviously) but not unrealistic, for some of us at least.
> 
> Also, I have very obviously borrowed one of Sherlock's fantasies from wordstring's Paradox Series. If you've read it, you'll recognize it, otherwise, go read it!

For all the energy that John Watson had spent in fantasizing about, yearning for, and remonstrating with himself about his flatmate, in the end it was really quite simple.  The two of them stumbled into the stairwell, high on adrenaline, still giggling about the chase (nothing depressing like a murder, just a nicely clever ring of high-end car thieves and a fair amount of scrabbling over and under street level), John still glowingly amazed by Sherlock’s deductions.  He turned to Sherlock to say something that he knew would only stoke Sherlock’s already sturdy ego, and saw for a split second something he wasn’t meant to see – raw hunger for praise on Sherlock’s face. 

They lock eyes and Sherlock recovers in an instant, but despite that neither of them are breathing, and when John leans towards Sherlock, he couldn’t have uttered a word.  Instead he just lifts his eyebrows to ask for permission, and Sherlock nods once, and then they are kissing. John meant it to be only a quiet, close-mouthed thing -- whether Sherlock enjoyed kissing or not wasn’t the sort of topic they’d discussed (not beyond ‘married to my work’, thank you very much) but things get out of hand quickly.  He feels Sherlock’s mouth open like an invitation, so he plunges in.

After that things get a bit hazy.  He is fairly clear on the part where Sherlock shoved him backwards up the steps, and he remembers that getting clothes off seemed to take several days.  But in the end they are together on Sherlock’s huge bed, and somehow he ends up in Sherlock’s mouth, and _god_ it feels good, _more than good_ , well, not quite as good as some of his more ridiculous fantasies, but still and all, for a first time, it is amazing, really.  A bit fast, perhaps, but aren’t all first times?  He tries to slow down, tries to think of surgery or runny noses or any unsexy topic just to get hold of himself, but every thought that isn’t _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock_ is carried away in a current, an inundation, and fucking flood of emotion and lust.  He hopes that Sherlock doesn’t mind too much, but even partial sentences are beyond his capacity, so he settles for murmuring Sherlock’s name, mixed with bits of nonsense and curse words, as he comes undone.

Once the world is in place again, he reaches down to help Sherlock, and realizes that Sherlock doesn’t need any help.  He must have come together with John, and that was nice.

\---

Sherlock woke late the next morning, curled tight against John’s shoulder.  _Finally!_ groused the running commentary in his head.  It felt oddly like being a small child, sheltering from something fearful that he couldn’t quite remember.  He held himself rigidly to avoid waking John, only his eyes flickering back and forth, taking in the details he’d never been allowed to access before.  The flow of the livid scar on John’s shoulder.  The shape of the inside of his ear, which you could really only discern up close.  The sparse trail of curly blondish hair that ran from John’s belly button down lower… best not to think of that right now, not if he wanted John to stay asleep.

But his eyes rotating in their sockets must have been louder than he expected, because John stirred, frowned a little, as if uncertain why a large seastar-like being was scrabbled in next to his back, and then smiled as the identity of the mystery creature resolved itself.

‘Morning you,’ murmured John.

Sherlock hummed briefly and smiled back.  Really everything was lovely.  He had waited a long time for John to make a move, and now John had, and everything was lovely. 

John reached up to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock closed his eyes contentedly.  John flipped himself towards Sherlock, maneuvered himself around Sherlock’s still curled up form, and nuzzled a bit at the side of his face.  Sherlock held his breath, but John didn’t stop. Instead he nipped playfully at Sherlock’s lower lip. Sherlock’s body coiled tight and his voice came out a bit louder than he wanted.

“John, about last night –“

“It was a little fast, I know, I’m working on it,” admitted John ruefully.  “Isn’t that what the morning after is for?”

“I was thinking that Thursdays would be a good time,” finished Sherlock in a rush.

“I,  oh.  Thursdays?” repeated John, just as if Sherlock hadn’t already stated that quite clearly.

When Sherlock only looked at him expectantly, John repeated again, “Not sure I follow.  What about Thursdays?”

“For – this –“ Sherlock struggled momentarily “and everything.”

“Thursdays?” said John for the third time, and Sherlock wondered if sex resulted in lower intelligence, and if so how this could be measured, and would it result in needing to filch any new equipment from St. Barts, but John was clearly waiting for more explanation, so he stumbled ahead.

“I realize that a Friday or Saturday evening is more traditional, but your schedule varies week to week, and most of our cases involve a good deal of physical exertion on the weekend, whereas Tuesdays are statistically the most likely for episodes of severe boredom ending in walls being shot at, and that may not be very conducive to – this – so Thursday seems like a good compromise,” he finished in one breath.

“Traditional?”

Really, was the man just going to repeat after Sherlock all morning?

John pulled away by a few inches to get a better look at Sherlock, and immediately Sherlock’s head was screeching _Idiot! Imbecile! Infant! John was so comfortable wrapped around you and now there is space and cold air between you and you’ll never have this again because you can never get this part right and what does it matter if you can charm him with deductions, what use are deductions against the whole organic messy fickle changeable life that you can’t get right and_

Then John’s warm hands were strong on his arms, squeezing him together and the voice out of his head. _Sherlock_ , John was repeating, his voice sliding unpredictably between affection and alarm.   And Sherlock took a deep breath and tried again, “I thought it would be reassuring to…” but trailed off as he saw that John, like all the others, _not that there were so very many others, but John was also not going to be reassured by knowing that – this – came on a regular day and therefore didn’t need to be worried about for 6 out of 7 days and Sherlock could relax knowing that everything was fine during the rest of the week and he didn’t know why he had thought that this time would go differently and_

“Sherlock!” John resorted to a drill sergeant’s bark now and that worked, that quieted the inside of Sherlock’s head and even allowed the visual world to drop its surrealist edges and Sherlock could see John again, _and John had not tried to stop his words with a kiss, had not tried to run his hand over Sherlock’s chest, had not said anything about love, and  maybe – this -- had a chance to go differently after all._

\--

John Watson had often heard himself described as placid, calm, even-keeled… and he liked those descriptions.  He liked the well-being that comes with self-knowledge and stability.  But even he had to admit that his emotional terrain had been affected by his association with the world’s only amateur consulting detective.  Within 24 hours of meeting Sherlock Holmes, he had killed a man in a situation where a serious wound, hell, even a stray gunshot wide of the mark, probably would have answered just as well.  Then he’d spent months ruthlessly squashing the fantasies that popped into his head (granted, unless he was in his own bedroom or he was following Sherlock on the stairs, a man had to have some relief).  He’d tried a string of girlfriends and even enjoyed a few of them, but the enjoyment made him feel guilty, which seemed supremely unfair. 

But it was when he actually kissed Sherlock that things really got strange – like his reality had been rearranged into some cubist painting, leaving him shaking his head in bewilderment.  Eyes one above the other, nose below the mouth, joy and pain swapping places, frustration knifing through like a scar about to break open, tenderness skirmishing with anger, straight lines of the calendar eclipsing the curves of the body…    _Thursdays,_ god help him _._

The Kiss (in John’s mind it appeared with capital letters) had come on a Sunday in the flush of victory over a case.  That left Monday, Tuesday (wallpaper still as intact as before) and Wednesday for John to worry the problem like a toothache.  But by Thursday morning he was ready to let bygones be bygones.  From what he gathered (Sherlock seemed not at all interested in further discussions) one advantage of a schedule was not needing to worry about whether sex was ok on the specified day, and John took that to heart.  If all he had was Thursday, then might as well have a plan.  In fact John had spent the better part of Thursday morning, starting not long after midnight, mapping out a strategy, considering alternatives, running scenarios in his head, and needing to start all over when his thoughts inevitably became derailed.  But by the time he was ready to leave for the clinic, The Plan was perfected.  Because what Sherlock didn’t know, yet, was that John was bloody good at this, and he enjoyed being good at it, was a bit proud of it.  So if all he had was Thursdays, he would make it Enough.

\--

On Thursday morning, Sherlock drank the tea and ate the toast John made him, then spent the morning searching for the right case – it wouldn’t do to have a mystery hanging over him by evening, or a 3-day marathon without sleep or food, or worst of all, something dangerous enough to call John in.  After all, he had promised, more or less, and he was reasonably sure John had understood, despite the frustrating amounts of repetition, and Sherlock knew that keeping promises was important in a relationship, really one of the first and easiest rules in that slippery world.

He got home late, brandishing Thai take away from the new place that John liked.  John was sitting in his armchair, looking like he’d been there a while, and he eyed Sherlock speculatively while unpacking the food.  John ate sparingly for once, and then they watched a bit of crap telly, and Sherlock did his best to be brilliant and witty when he cut the fictional detective to ribbons, but he could feel the tension, the waiting, the anticipation radiating ever more strongly from John.  About 5 minutes from the show’s final reveal, Sherlock laid out The Answer, which never failed to get a growling complaint from John, but this time John merely grunted “glad that’s out of the way” and clicked off the set.

 Sherlock was aware of John eyes on his face, and now John wasn’t just radiating, he was burning tiny holes in Sherlock’s skin, lines of tender smoking invisible scars.  _John pushes him lightly onto his back and straddles his hips in one fluid motion.  He pounces and somehow gains both of Sherlock’s wrists in one of his strong hands and pins them to the arm of the couch over Sherlock’s head.  With his free hand, he traces a single vein down the inside of Sherlock’s left wrist, across the sensitive skin at the crook of Sherlock’s elbow, agonizingly slowly until he reaches Sherlock’s throat, traces the pulse of his jugular, and settles in the hollow between his collar bones.  Sherlock is silent, his cheekbones barely touched with pink, his breathing ragged._

“You have no idea,” John rasps, “what I want to do to you.”

When Sherlock makes no reply, John adds, a bit wickedly, “What I plan to do.”

Sherlock opens his eyes slowly and tries in vain to control his voice.  It still came out in an undignified squeaky whisper when he said “what you did last week – that was fine.”  He saw John looking at him still, a flickering uncertainty dimming his regard, and Sherlock clarified “you don’t need to do anything different.”

Then Sherlock watched, appalled, as John’s brilliance dimmed bit by bit until finally all that was left was a soft glow, and he smiled at Sherlock affectionately, and for once Sherlock’s inner commentary was missing, running amok somewhere on the sidelines where Sherlock would never find it until it was too late, and Sherlock huddled miserably alone as John made love to him sweetly and carefully, and afterwards murmured comforting phrases in Sherlock’s ear and kissed his forehead and twined one hand into Sherlock’s curls and Sherlock fell asleep sheltered against John’s chest and dreamt of rain falling onto thin leaves and dripping into the muddy ground.

\--

Weeks go by and John starts a list in his head.  It is a fairly short list, each item headed with a bullet point, the whole titled “What Sherlock likes”.  It reads “fingers stroking in his hair”, “sitting too close while watching crap telly”, and, more hopefully, “pressure on the small of his back”.  John watches carefully for additions to his list, but they are few and far between, and often don’t hold up when repeated.  He starts another list entitled “What Sherlock liked at least once” and adds “being held by the shoulders”, “having his forehead kissed”, “drawing small circles on the soles of his feet,” and “ticklish around ears” with a question mark. 

He considers a list titled “What Sherlock tolerates”, but that’s a bit self-serving really, and John doesn’t have the stomach for it. 

Thursdays are quiet.  John can feel the worry in Sherlock when he wakes in the morning, and he knows that Sherlock will distance himself most of the day.  At first John tries to talk his way out of weekly physical relations, out of any physical relations at all, but that seems to make Sherlock even more tightly wound and worried, and god help him, John wants this too much to really make his point.  But he is slow and careful to a fault.  He runs through both lists of What Sherlock might like, and tests out a few new entries that he has chosen during the preceding week.  He sees that Sherlock wants him to come first, so he obliges, and if Sherlock fades afterwards, John tries not to take it personally.

That’s hard because Sherlock doesn’t always fade.  Sometimes he explodes like a supernova streaking across their bedroom ceiling, shouting John’s name, laughing and crying at the same time, and John feels like a genius who has just discovered string theory or evolution or superconductors.

But not often.

He still watches Sherlock on the stairs. He still fantasizes in the privacy of his own room – although Sherlock seems quite keen on sleeping with him.  Tentatively he adds “sleeping with me” to the List of What Sherlock Likes, but for his sanity he needs his own room sometimes.  Maybe there should be a schedule for that as well.

He fantasizes about Sherlock brandishing a riding crop over him, Sherlock immobilized with his own dressing gown belt and begging for John to touch him, Sherlock shouldering him down at a crime scene and fucking him mercilessly as five of London’s finest look on, Sherlock mouthing obscenities in his ear while John teases him, Sherlock covering his body with tender burning kisses, Sherlock on his knees with John’s cock in his mouth and John slumped almost insensible over his back.

John realizes that this has gone too far on when he can’t stop crying after he comes, alone, in his own bedroom.

\--

Sherlock is not blind.  He is far from blind, the polar opposite of blind.  He can see what his lover is going through.  He doesn’t need a dozen subtle tells _John’s footfalls arrhythmic on the lower steps when he follows Sherlock, John’s mouthing “one” every time he touches Sherlock’s hair, “two” every time he kisses Sherlock’s forehead, the occasional lingering scent of aloe vera from John’s room, his riding crop set back at a slight angle to its original position, John pressed  two inches closer to him when they watch telly on Thursday nights, browser tabs that John forgets to close on asexuality and sexual trauma and the definition of consensual rape, John’s disappearance in the middle of the night and the way he returns in less than ten minutes and Sherlock pretends to have slept through it, John’s guilty starts and shifting eyes when he sees Anderson on a Monday too early in the morning, the sudden use of a truly random and unguessable password on John’s laptop_   to know that John is unhappy with the situation and angry with himself and despairing of solutions.  He has only to look at John’s face, his tight smile, his red-rimmed eyes, to know that.

It had been easier before, watching John lusting after him and trying to hide it.

Before, he had debated how to deflect John without pushing him away.  But gradually it came to him that no deflecting was required.  John’s wanting was almost a physical presence in the room, but it never spoke, never acted, never took anything on itself.  Sherlock taunted it and it merely sat in stony silence.  Sherlock pushed himself into it and it merely gave way and reformed elsewhere.  So finally Sherlock started to ignore it, and then one day on the steps John had looked at him, ready to say something endearing and ridiculous and _out loud_ again, and he saw Sherlock with no protection, and when John lifted his eyebrows, Sherlock felt _this was right, this time was different, John was not anyone else in the world, everything was possible, supernovas in London flats and crap telly and personifications of lust that whisper comfort._

But now, Thursdays, he knew that not everything was possible after all.

\--

On the seventh Thursday, John sets himself to small tasks around the flat.  He finds a screwdriver to tighten a loose doorknob, rakes ashes and something else -- charred fingernails? -- from the bottom of the oven, and scrubs the sink drain.  In past relationships, he has found that having a task to do makes talking about potentially sensitive topics easier.  He hopes it’s a general rule, because he’s never had quite such a topic to broach.

On his third time to the sink, he walks right into Sherlock.  It’s understandable – he’s never seen Sherlock washing forks before, and feels a little surprised that Sherlock knows his way around a dishrag.  He leaves the utensils to Sherlock in favor of starting the water for tea, and that’s when it hits him, Sherlock is looking artfully innocent, as if fork-washing were a daily occurrence.  Suspicion blooms into certainty in John’s head, and he can’t help adopting a teasing tone when he mutters “Bet you googled it.  Answers.com?”

“Washing forks? Any idiot can do it,” Sherlock replies haughtily.

“Not that, you git.  How To Bring Up A Sensitive Subject Without Scaring Off Your Flatmate" John responds, and is rewarded by an actual blush from Sherlock.  It starts at his cheekbones but migrates to the tips of his ears and lingers there long after Sherlock has composed his face.  He supposes that, however expert Sherock is at Mind Over Transport, he left ear cartilage out of the equation, and now it’s betraying him.  John finds it endearing, and is filled with a surge of tender affection.  He wants to pull Sherlock into his arms and – well – there are any number of things he wants to do, but for the first time in a month, there’s no bitter resignation at not being able to do them.

“So what’s the Sensitive Topic?” John continues while stacking glassware on the kitchen table.

Sherlock seems to be absorbed in the complexity of fork tines, but when John continues gazing at him, and responds in a rush, “this isn’t working.  You’re not happy.  You can’t be.  No one in their right mind would be happy here and you certainly have a – a – a very right mind.”

“I’m happy right now,” says John softly, realizing that it’s true. “I’m happy during a case. And watching telly. I’m happy that I’m here to have your back and patch you up and hear you spin your deductions out of straw.”

“Alright, yes.  But.  You were happy with all of those things before.  You were, weren’t you?”

John considers forcing the burden of this conversation onto Sherlock, and maybe he felt neglected enough to do that 10 minutes ago, but 10 minutes can be a lifetime and right now he can see how hard this is on Sherlock.  His ears are fluctuating from pink to red and spots come and go on his cheeks as well. 

“Of course I was. I am. Happy, I mean.  There was nobody else who could have gotten a small time crook to deliver me my cane on my own doorstep, no one else I would walk into a pool strapped with explosives for.  We’re both adrenaline junkies and you put up with the telly and we like the same semi-decent takeaway.  Sex, shagging, fucking – it’s just.  Well.  It’s just a small part.  Not the way to measure what we – what we have.”  John was aware that he had made a strong start, but the argument had faltered somewhere after semi-decent takeaway and petered out altogether by the time he voiced the vague “what we have”, and he was having a hard time meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“Dull,”  commented Sherlock, and, flatly, "even you don’t believe it” and John felt caught out.  Trust Sherlock to trample social niceties, even when John was just trying to be helpful.  This conversation didn’t look like it was going to get any easier, and John was running out of ways to putter. “Fine,” he huffed, dropping himself into a chair.  “What do I believe?”

“How should I know?  Not my area, remember?”

“Brilliant,” muttered John.  “The Case of the Uninterested Sociopath and his Dull Blogger.”

“Exactly.  Clearly I need more data.”  John winced, because now Sherlock was doing that disconcerting thing where he had decided on an answer and was convinced it needed to be communicated at great speed and all in one breath.  Possibly before it could self-destruct.

“And for data I need observations, the only way to build a solid theory, and clearly you need to be involved, since you are the subject of the theory, but not with me, since that would introduce an observer bias and in any case we’ve clearly already shown that I don’t know what I’m doing because it is not my area even though that’s fine by the way, not having that as an area is completely fine, but that doesn’t help with the data, so clearly we will need a third party in order to obtain—“

Sherlock stopped because John had pounced on him _, rather like on the first proper Thursday, except this time John was not smiling in that predatory way that Sherlock sometimes  longed for and sometimes dreaded, instead he had gone quite white and grim, holding Sherlock’s arms as if trying to pin down a fluttering insect to determine its genus._   “Stop,” said John at his most  granite.  “What is a third party?  What are you on about?”

“A third party, someone who is not you or I.”

“Not you or I?”  Apparently John was back to repeating things, perhaps due to having left off with the frankly distracting puttering.

“There are over 7 billion people in the world today, John, and a good percentage of those are not you or I.  It won’t be too hard to find one of them.”

“Find one of them.  To do what?”

Sherlock sighed, obviously wishing John did not pick such inconvenient moments to be ordinary.

“John… sexual relationships are not my area.  Sex as a motivator for crime, that goes without saying.  I can list 34 tells for physical attraction, 19 for jealousy, and 15 for revenge, but when not related to motive, I have very little data, and any that I ever had, I deleted it long ago.  I never thought I would need it.  Now I want it back.  And you need to help me.”

“How?” the single word seemed to burn through John’s mouth.

“You need to show me.”

“With a third party?”

“Exactly,” beamed Sherlock. “I knew you would figure it out.”

“Bloody hell!” the curse is out of John’s mouth with no input from his brain.  Then more slowly, so that even Sherlock cannot fail to grasp his meaning “That Is. Not. Fucking. Happening.  Not in this life.”

\--

Except that it does, of course. Because Sherlock is the unstoppable force and John is the immovable object and apparently they will annihilate each other like matter and anti-matter unless something gives. John offers to wank himself while Sherlock looks on, but really, how is that data with an entire variable just missing?  John casts about for parts of the sexual act that wouldn’t stress Sherlock too much, but by now the stress is stressing Sherlock, so he might as well be talking to the skull on the mantleplace.  And Sherlock wields John’s own words against him _only a small part not the way to measure_ and only glares at him when John thunders _Dull_.

They storm at each other through night and into breakfast, when John all but force-feeds Sherlock a half-piece of toast and Sherlock has the distinct impression that something quite different from eating is going on.  After the toast, John concedes to negotiating conditions, which Sherlock finds fascinating.  John declares the question of gender irrelevant, and Sherlock is relieved since he suspects that both gender and appearance are indeed highly relevant predictive variables.  Why else would John still be ogling him on the steps after all this time?

Video-cameras are out, much to Sherlock’s chagrin.

Sherlock would like multiple data points, preferably under a range of conditions, but he settles for one in depth observation and hopes that once the usefulness of the data is apparent, John will be motivated to increase the sample size. 

Sherlock wonders whether the day of the week is an important variable or merely a distractor.  He would like to wait until next Thursday, just in case, but he’s not sure John’s willingness (if it can be called willingness) can be extended that long.  John has been glowering non-stop since 9:17 this morning, the moment that he stopped proposing alternatives and starting negotiating conditions, and looks set on glowering right through the sleeping night if Sherlock doesn’t do something quickly.

Luckily Sherlock has connections, has done favors for many people, and at least a few of those were tall, attractive, arrogant verging on infuriating men who don’t mind helping him out now even on short notice.  Sherlock has no illusions about his own personality, and since one observation is all he gets, at least for the moment, he wants to control as many variables as possible.  That’s the scientific reason, but he is also a bit afraid of John’s glower, and not sure that John wouldn’t eat one of his friendlier connections alive.

After a few discreet phone calls, the arrangements are made and Sherlock spends the afternoon rather happily making a kind of hunting blind in his room.  It will allow him to perch high up in one corner with most of his body obstructed by plywood.  One-way glass would be better, and can be ordered online, but not for same day delivery. 

Constructing a hunting blind seems like the kind of soldierly activity that John would excel at, and Sherlock means to ask him for help, but it comes out as a request for tea instead, and even then John snarls at him to make his own fucking tea.

\--

Sherlock’s connection arrives during Columbo – the fifth episode in a row for John, who gets up and walks straight into the bedroom when he sees the other man at the door. 

The other man is a bit taller than John, sinewy, with blond spiky hair.  He follows John into the bedroom and makes to shake hands, but John keeps his at his sides and cuts the man off when he tries to offer his name.

The other man looks John up and down and says “Army?”  John nods curtly, noticing the American accent, and the other man jerks his chin and replies “Marines.”

They stare at each other for several more seconds, and the other man moves suddenly, knocking John to the bed and attempting to pin him there, but John is too fast, merely rolls to one side and flips to end up on top.  The other man kicks at his knee and succeeds in knocking it out from under John, toppling John onto his stomach in a rather undignified way, but John is reaching for the man’s hair…

\--

It’s not that Sherlock doesn’t trust his memory, but he still prefers to take some notes as well.  From his perch, he watches a good ten minutes of sparring that looks, to him, nothing like a sexual relationship.  He records several attempted jabs to the eye, two shin kicks, and a bear hug, but none of this is really helping him understand anything. 

Finally both men are panting, and he sees that John’s belligerence has given way to a sort of grudging respect.  Sherlock can see 15 tells of physical attraction in the other man, 5 in John.  In a lull in the action, the other man crooks half a smile at John, and John nods once. 

The other man undresses somewhat haphazardly, with one eye on John alert for attacks, but John just watches him.  John is already in a sleep shirt and pants, and he doesn’t seem to feel the need to be wearing less.

“Should I…” starts the other man, but John interrupts.

“Look, I know this isn’t your fault, it’s my mad berk of a flatmate up there,” angling his chin in Sherlock’s direction, “but I’ll tell you how this is going to work.  I’m going to fuck you, and then I’m going to take care of myself.”

The other man nods once, and offers “Kissing?”

John rolls his eyes but nods.

The other man approaches John warily but then their mouths lock and Sherlock realizes a flaw in his plan.  From up here, he really can’t see what’s going on inside their mouths.  Has John opened his lips to admit the other man?  He thinks so, but it’s difficult to be sure exactly when.  A miniature camera could have helped, but presumably would fall under the video ban.  Sherlock will have to plan more carefully in the future if he wants good data.

They break off kissing and Sherlock is gratified to see that John is up to 8 tells.  The number of tells does seem to be a good proxy indicator for arousal, and he wonders if there would be a proportional relationship between time spent kissing and arousal, or whether the depth of the kiss is a better indicator, or perhaps both.  Then John moves down to place an open-mouthed kiss on the other man’s throat.  Sherlock sees that his eyes flick up towards the other man’s face, assessing the results, then he moves a bit to the left, eye flick, a bit down, and apparently decides that’s the correct spot, because he stays there for almost 40 seconds, and by 20 the other man is moaning audibly.   After that John moves somewhat at random, kissing the other man’s neck, shoulders, and chest, but Sherlock sees that each time he moves on he searches until he finds whatever he’s looking for, and the other man is now easily over 2 dozen tells.

Finally John reaches for the lube and a condom.  The other man takes the opportunity to press his own kisses on John’s neck and chest, and Sherlock sees John go still, his eyes glassy but his skin nearly glowing.  John’s breathing has turned harsh and after 12 seconds he jerks his head suddenly to mutter “are you ready, or do you need…”

“I’m good," the other man puts in quickly.

John shoves his sleep pants partly down, applies the condom and lube with a steady hand, and pushes into the other man with one practiced motion.  Sherlock is fascinated with what comes next, because he would not have recognized this if he hadn’t seen what John was doing with the kissing.  John changes his angle slightly on each stroke, he speeds up and slows down, he adds a slight twist, and each time Sherlock can see he is testing the results, waiting.  Sometimes a combinations works and John stays with it for 20 or 30 seconds, but then there is a subtle shift and John is searching and testing again. Each time he gets it right, the other man moans or curses or, in one case, whimpers, which Sherlock can scarcely credit.  Then, so softly that Sherlock barely catches it, John asks “good?” and the other man nods again.  John speeds up and Sherlock times the other man’s breaths, curious whether they follow a regular pattern or are as chaotic as they seem.  Finally the other man cries out “oh god, that’s it, harder, jesus” and jerks over and over.  John looks down at him, and Sherlock sees his hand reach towards the other man face, but it stops.  It looks like John is biting his lip – why?  Has he been hurt?  After a long pause, John pulls out, discards the condom, and finishes himself with five strong and efficient pulls.  He is silent for the first three, but his breath hitches on the fourth, and on the fifth he is mouthing words, so it's good that Sherlock is an accomplished lip-reader, which he needs to be in this profession, and he reads "idiot, git, berk, sodding idiot" over and over until John collapses onto the bed. 

There is silence for several heartbeats, which Sherlock uses to jot some final notes.

"I hope that wasn't too horrible," Sherlock hears John say.  His voice sounds normal, relaxed even, and he is smiling a bit at the other man.

"Under the circumstances..." offers the other man wryly.  Then, when John looks unlikely to bite, he adds "Let me know if you get bored with him."

Sherlock is surprised when John actually laughs, and is only a bit reassured to hear John's  "Not a chance" because _now John has reached up and is running his fingers affectionately through the man's hair and Sherlock misses John's next comment altogether because now John has his hand on the man's back and he looks like he might smile that smile that normally only Sherlock gets to see and Sherlock can barely make out John's profile because the room seems to have gotten very bright and he tried to climb down from his perch but he catches his foot on the top rung, tips and hangs inverted for a second before plummeting onto the bed and he is conscious that he is highly overdressed in his wool trousers and dress shirt, a carnival freak in reverse, because there is John, not exactly debauched, but decidedly rumpled in a sleep shirt, his hand still on the other man's back, looking up at Sherlock like he doesn't belong in this place which is after all his own bedroom._

There is a long silence in which no one moves.

“I think you’re jealous,” John says finally, in a conversational tone.

Sherlock tries to consider that, because he has often wondered about jealousy, _even though he knows 19 physical tells, the reaction is still quite irrational and outside of Sherlock’s experience, but then he finds he can’t get any farther because his brain seems to be not working very efficiently, in fact he can’t remember any of the 19 tells, only the number, so he can’t evaluate his own state, which would be easy to do if only he could remember._

“So.” John picks up the conversational slack. “You’re the one who wanted data.  What happened?  You were surprisingly quiet for someone who was going out of his mind.” 

Sherlock tries to speak but he can’t find any of the words that would keep a sentence together, only _nineteen_ and _smile_ and _freak_ and _touch_.  He’s fairly certain there’s no way those words hold water on their own, so he makes do with silence.  He watches John’s eyes flick over him.  John removes his hand from the other man’s back, Sherlock finds he can breathe a little better, and he sees John nod to himself.  But then he can’t breathe again because John is moving his hand up, almost touching the other man’s hair, and John is smiling a little, and Sherlock knows _this is not fine, really not fine at all, so not fine that it is no longer a measureable quantity, just an absolute, a Boolean variable, Not Fine, Not Fine, Not Fine –_

But John’s hand has continued to move, and he clears the other man’s head without even brushing against it, and instead he puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, then sits to free his other hand to put it on Sherlock’s other shoulder, and his face is almost but not quite touching Sherlock’s and he says “It’s ok, I’ve got you.  We don’t need to talk about this right now, ok?” and Sherlock takes a deep breath and nods. Then he nods again just to make sure that John saw, and John smiles a bit and says “idiot.”  Sherlock is somewhat sure that it sounds affectionate.

\--

After Sherlock nods twice and John calls him an idiot, it falls to John to see the other man (it turns out his name is Bill Waters) out the door.  It’s a bit awkward but John is not fussed about it.  He comes back to find Sherlock still frozen on the bed and looking like he might topple if John doesn’t move back into place.  John sighs, because now he is really tired.  He’s been up for 36 hours, arguing with Sherlock for the twelve of them and glowering for another twelve, he had a pretty energetic romp with an American marine, and to be honest, he’s feeling a bit bruised and pretty mellow.  But Sherlock is capable of going without sleep for days when something’s on his mind, and John would prefer not to have this conversation after Sherlock’s had another 8 hours to stew, so he grimaces and says “I think we should talk.”

Sherlock looks as if he’s not sure what physical movements constitute talking, so John continues softly.  “Let me see if I have this sorted.  During the actual sex, you were fine.  You watched me fuck him, quite thoroughly, just so you know, and you took notes and it was fascinating.”  He pauses long enough to see that Sherlock is not disagreeing, then continues on.  “Then you watched me getting myself off…  By the way, could you read what I was saying?”  Sherlock nods cautiously.  “So,” continues John, “that was fine too.” Sherlock manages a scratchy “yes”.

“OK, then what?  I remember he said something about getting bored with you and I told him no chance, but I don’t see why that would set you off…”

Sherlock can’t hold it in any longer, regardless of which words fit together or how they all don’t, so he starts with “you were smiling” and “your hand” and “touch” and he’s right, his agitation is not making anything clearer.

“I did something with my hand that upset you?” John queries calmly, and Sherlock _can see, he knows what John is doing, he knows John knows the answer but he’s waiting for Sherlock to figure it out because Sherlock is an idiot (but that’s no reason to worry, most people are) and John has been laying out the clues so that Sherlock can deduce the answer and it’s infuriating to have his own methods turned on him and_ oh!

“He made you laugh. You touched his hair and ran your hand down his back.  But not exactly -- it was because you looked so relaxed and -- happy.”  John is smiling broadly, like Sherlock has just said something very clever, and Sherlock has recovered enough to look a tiny bit stony. Only a tiny bit, though, because he is still deeply shaken and not quite sure where he stands with John.

John’s smile fades, and he says “I didn’t do it on purpose, you know.  I mean, I didn’t do it to make you jealous.  I might have done if I’d thought of it, just so... well... but that’s not how it went.”

Sherlock relaxes a little, ignoring the second part of John’s statement, which seemed a little barbed anyway.  But John has nudged him back to thinking about Data, and he has questions.  “I don’t understand really.  You were angry and resistant, you never went above 9 tells, not even when – at the end – and then you liked him enough to, well…” Sherlock is not sure if he can bring himself to articulate it again, but John rescues him.

“That’s what sex is, Sherlock.  It releases tension.  It’s almost impossible to do it and not feel … happy … with the other person.  For me, I mean.  Obviously there’s a lot of people out there who are ... who can abuse sex, or get bored with it, or even use it to control someone else, but, well, that’s not me.”  He wonders how much he can tell Sherlock without triggering a relapse, but Sherlock asks, with genuine curiosity,

“You wanted to touch him when he came, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I wanted to do, for a moment.  But I didn’t.”

“Why? Because of me?”

“That’s not exactly it.  I … You know I never wanted this in the first place…”

Sherlock acknowledges that unhappily.

“And, well, I guess keeping myself emotionally uninvolved was a way to shield myself.  But you saw, it didn’t completely work…”

Sherlock has gone colorless again and is having a hard time making sounds.  After licking his lips several times, he whispers “I’m sorry, John.  I’m truly sorry.”

John smiles again, not the aren’t-you-clever smile, but a sad and possibly forgiving smile, and murmurs “We’ll get through it.  Although I think that was the first and last time for that particular kind of data.”

Sherlock nods almost absent-mindedly, and continues, as if he never paused “every relationship I had, the other person wanted... just wanted… not wrong, but not what I wanted.  And either they weren’t worth the trouble, that was fine, just end it there… or they were, maybe, and then we argued and they tried to be sensitive and I tried to be … accommodating.  I’m good at that you know.”  John grimaces, remembering how many times he’s seen Sherlock shamming.  “Until I got bored,” continues Sherlock. “And then it would end too.  Not fine.”

John hears Sherlock’s unspoken question and tells him, quite seriously, “Sherlock, I’m not going anywhere. Especially not over this.”  He sees that tears are winding down Sherlock’s face, even though his voice is steady, and he his desire to kiss them away is so strong it makes him dizzy.  But he knows it’s not a gesture that Sherlock would appreciate, so he raises his hand to Sherlock’s face and wipes them away with his thumb. Sherlock closes his eyes and lets John do it.

“Please don’t,” John murmurs as it dawns on him. “I’ve been doing the same thing.  I mean, I honestly didn’t realize at first, because you seemed, well, interested.  On the first night, I mean.  After that I should have known.  You told me and I should have known.  God, I even thought I was, I don’t know, helping you, maybe.” He is so appalled by the sudden realization that he can barely look at Sherlock.  “I just wanted to see what I wanted to see. I let you be … accommodating.”

But Sherlock sighs and shakes his head.  "That's not it, you know. I’ve never --  I'm a lot more convincing when I sham. It's not even that I don't enjoy -- you" He considers for a moment, then continues hesitantly "the same way I think you enjoyed Bill." 

"Jesus, we've really got ourselves into it, haven't we?" John shakes his head. After several minutes, he forces himself to keep talking. "So, what would be something you would choose?"

Sherlock just looks puzzled, so John clarifies, "Is there anything physical that you enjoy? Sometimes the strangest things -- when Bill saw me, he knew that touching or teasing were out, and he let me get in a fight with him. Something like that?"

"I'd be happy to spar with you if you feel you need to keep up," Sherlock offers.

"Sherlock!” John almost rolls his eyes.  “No… But when I did this with Bill," putting his hand lightly onto Sherlock's hair and teasing at one of the curls, "I bet you practically jumped out of your skin.  That's more what's meant by..."

"Well, I hardly think that playing at hair dressing is going to satisfy either of us!" Sherlock is recovering his ability to be acerbic.

"Really?" John spreads his fingers, draws lazy circles on Sherlock's scalp, and Sherlock's eyes drift shut for a few moments, then snap open again.  "Stop that," he complains, "How can I think when you're prodding at my brain?"

John smirks, but he also stops.  "Well?  Now that you can think, anything else?"

Sherlock sighs. "It's still a valid question."

"Really?  You didn't ask a question."

"How -- this -- works if it only, well, works for one person."

"Look, Sherlock, I spent months fantasizing about anything and everything with you.  I never told you that, but it's true. Anything you wanted to do right now would be fine by me."

"Anything?" 

John senses a trap, but he soldiers on anyway.  "Try me."

"What if I wanted to, say... explore you with my tongue..."

"Sherlock, really, that wouldn't be a problem," John starts, but Sherlock holds up a hand.

"I meant your eyes."

"Eyes?" _Christ_ , that sort of made sense.  For Sherlock. "As in, licking my eyeballs?"

"Yes.  Maybe.  I mean, because you wanted to explore this question," Sherlock is backpedalling.

John is not sure what to say. He blinks slowly, then he ventures "I suppose that would be ok.  I mean, you probably picked the only part of my body I haven't fantasized about having your tongue on, but --"

"But you would let me do it, even though you wouldn't enjoy it.  And you wouldn't want to do it to me at all," Sherlock finishes bleakly.  "We're right back where we started."

"Bloody hell," John swears again.  "Eyeballs? Is that what it feels like for you?"

They sit in silence again for a few minutes. Tentatively, John reaches for Sherlock's scalp, muttering "don't worry, I'll try not to prod too hard." 

"Not even if I ask you to?" There is an edge to Sherlock's voice, and John sees that his whole body is tense.  Not aroused, just tense.

"Not even if you asked," confirms John. "Or begged," he adds with a smile.

"No?" asks Sherlock, and he sits peacefully for long moments, his eyes drifting closed.  Then, softly, "Not even if I said _god_ _John, please, right there, god that's good, like that, just like that, please John.  Please..._ "

John gets gooseflesh hearing Sherlock voice gone husky, his eyes wide and black, a slight flush on his cheeks, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, and John thinks _4 tells_.  His heart races because this is want he’s dreamed of hearing, _Sherlock begging him_ , this is want he’s fantasized about seeing, _Sherlock wide-eyed with desire, basking a little sleepily but craving more_ , and it’s not for sex, _clearly that is out, it's just for more touch, more of what John already knows he likes, hell, it's been on the list since the beginning, and today has been hard and maybe that’s what Sherlock wants, a little reassurance for both of them_ , but John has already stepped willingly into more than one trap tonight, and he is not sure that this is not a test.

"Not even if you begged," he struggles to keep his voice light.

"No,” says Sherlock slowly. “I believe you wouldn't." Sherlock's voice is normal again, the flush gone, his eyes blue and green and gray in the space of one breath.

John feels his lungs collapse inside him.  He closes his eyes and tries to stop his hands from tremoring. He feels that he's narrowly avoided mass destruction, and it's all he can do to keep breathing.

"I told you I'm a lot more convincing when I sham," murmurs Sherlock, and then "I'm sorry, John, I had to know."

Maybe John should be angry at being made into an experiment, at being used once again to prove Sherlock's brilliance, but he thinks of all of the times Sherlock must have needed to armor himself against the person who was meant to love him, and he can't summon up the indignation.

"I won't do it again," promises Sherlock.  "If I ask you, you'll know it's what I want."

 _Good_.  John is not sure he could survive that twice.

Sherlock lifts his hand deliberately and settles it in John's short hair.  He rubs small circles and loops until John's breathing is easy again, and John knows he is sleepy, he can barely keep his eyes open, because this has been probably the longest day of his life, which is saying something for an ex-army ex-medic from Afghanistan.  "Come," murmurs Sherlock.  "You need to sleep."

\--

On Saturday, they get a fascinating case that involves a trip into the sewers, a jump from a second-story window to avoid the nanny, a missing carrot peeler and a mismatched stapler.  Sherlock is brilliant and John is happy to admire him, out loud, even with half of the Yard looking on. 

At home they move softly around one another and have small conversations that seem very important without any actual meaning. Sherlock even nips out for the shopping and returns triumphant with a gallon a milk and seventeen carrots.  When John asks what experiment he has planned involving carrots, Sherlock looks perplexed, and John tries to figure out how to fit it all in the fridge.

On Monday, Sherlock uses 3 of the carrots to make risotto for John and huffs at him when John looks surprised.  Cooking is just chemistry, after all, and there's no reason for John to think that Sherlock can't do it, other than the fact that John hasn't seen him do more than wash forks since he moved in.

On Tuesday, there are no cases, and John makes a weak joke about walls getting shot and they both laugh much longer than the joke merits, but then Sherlock announces that he's going out, and no, he doesn't need backup.

On Wednesday Sherlock heads out early in the morning and doesn't return until it's gone seven, looking rested and not sporting any spray patterns that would indicate he's been in the sewers, so John doesn't say anything.  Sherlock makes stroganoff for dinner and douses it with a red wine that John likes, and they are both quite mellow afterwards, and they watch a bit of telly.  At first Sherlock is silent, but John looks at him and says "go on, then" and Sherlock smiles and says "why doesn't the idiot notice there are 2 hangers reversed?" and John laughs and shushes him.

On Thursday, Sherlock is up to make John a cup of tea in the morning. John has a shift at the clinic, several extra hours made tense by a three year old with two crushed fingers (got closed into the frame of the door while the mother was in a hurry, and now she's screaming louder than her child) in the middle of which a homeless man who came in with a mild 'flu stops breathing and has to be resuscitated.  All ending well still does not make for an easy day, and John dreads the three year old's follow up appointment. Stitches can flash him back to scenes in Afghanistan, where he desperately wanted to stitch people up, especially when there's a lot of screaming involved.

He walks back in the dark, expecting to come home to an empty flat, but Sherlock is there already, and the smell of curry wafts enticingly out of the door. They eat companionably, and resettle in the living room.  John intends to finish up his entry on "The Case of the Missing Carrot Peeler", but Sherlock grabs the laptop from his hands.  He fiddles aimlessly with it for a few moments before dropping it summarily in the kitchen.  He returns and clambers over the back of John's armchair, nudging him forward until he perches behind John but barely touching him.

"What's this then?" John asks, but he falls silent as Sherlock puts hands on John's shoulders and circles them slowly down John's arms, as far as he can reach while sitting on the back of an armchair, and the slowly up John's back.  His hands feather at first, but within a few circles he is pressing, digging, smoothing, each finger separately inducing relaxation. John is surprised to find that Sherlock is quite good at this. 

Within a few minutes, John's head is lolling back between Sherlock's knees, his eyes closed.   Sherlock ghosts one hand over John's forehead and cheek, and John stifles the urge to nip at his finger.  Just because Sherlock promised not to sham does not mean he can predict or avoid movements that, to John, are almost sexual. John takes a breath, focuses on relaxing, and opens his eyes to look at Sherlock.  Sherlock smiles down at him and says "maybe the bed would be better." 

" _God yes_ " answers John.

Sherlock propels him to the bed with one hand on his back, and undresses them both as well.  He pushes John lightly onto his stomach and resumes his former activities. His hands roam down John's back, his arms, his legs, prodding, kneading, rolling, tapping, pushing into sore spots and dragging comfort into his muscles.  After 20 minutes, John feels like his body is made of clouds and beach sand and seafoam.  He is a thousand miles away when Sherlock suddenly flips him over and starts on his front, his hands on the planes of John chest, over and between John's thighs, pushing into the soles of his feet, across the inside his elbows, and back to his throat. Which is very tight. John feels he is getting hard and he grits his teeth, not wanting to betray Sherlock, but also not wanting to ask him to stop.

"Shhhh," Sherlock is at his ear.  "It's ok. You're ok.  I can watch."

John looks up at him in uncertainty, and Sherlock repeats, a bit more firmly, "I'd like to watch you."

So John closes his eyes again and feels himself growing ever harder as Sherlock's hands play over his body.  Where did Sherlock learn to trail seafoam and fireworks from his fingers?

"I've been taking classes," Sherlock informs him. "Did you know wikipedia lists 49 separate kinds of massage?"

Classes?  John can't imagine Sherlock taking classes in anything, much less the art of massage.

"Well, really more of a private tutorial. Even massage therapists need favors, you know,"  Sherlock clarifies, and then falls silent again.

John's whole body is awash in fire.  His skin can feel every move of Sherlock's before he makes it, and he is shaking in a way that is impossible to control. With an effort, he opens his eyes a fraction and the sight slams through his body -- Sherlock rapt above him, cheeks flushed a deep pink, tongue darting between his lips, eyes nothing but pupil.  He drags his eyes over Sherlock's body, down to his cock, which lies nestled, small and tender, between his legs.  Sherlock's words come back to him -- I'd like to watch you -- and for the first time, he has no desire to awaken anything else in Sherlock.

Sherlock has seen John's look and where it was directed, but his hands continue to move over John's body.  Very slowly, Sherlock lowers his mouth over John's forehead. The tip of his tongue reaches out to carress John eyebrow.  Then it is gone as Sherlock looks searchingly at John's face, then returns to touch just the corner of John's open eye.  A tremor goes through Sherlock's body, and John feels his own skin beginning to fray, tiny bits of his nerves nakedly exposed to pure pleasure, and it's too much, he can't hold on and he can't let go, his breath comes in tiny spurts as he struggles not to lose consciousness. 

Sherlock is staring at him, drinking in every detail, and just before John breaks, he whispers "touch yourself.  You know what you like.  Do it."  and John obeys and one sharp tug is all it takes and he is completely and utterly undone.

When he is finished finding the pieces of himself and putting them back together, John opens his eyes to see Sherlock still sitting at his side, looking pleased and a bit predatory. "Maybe you'd better introduce me to your tutor," offers John.

"You have no idea," Sherlock answers conversationally, "all of the things I plan to do to you."

"Too bad its barely Friday morning," John replies with a smile, and Sherlock snorts, and John realizes Sherlock won't put up with waiting nearly that long.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I've ever written anywhere, even grade school. Any feedback very welcome!


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